Prompts
by Chimuwaku
Summary: Written works created for the hashimadaminibang prompts on tumblr! [All HashiMada]
1. Dreams

**DAY 1**

**Prompt:** Dreams

**Summary:** Two dreamers, one nightmare.

* * *

Hashirama dreams. He dreams of colors he never knew existed: blue-reds and orange-greens, translucent pinks on seawater. There are words he couldn't fathom: drawn out consonants and rounded vowels, forming scattered verses and dancing across the purple line of fiction. Letters shape to his will. His will shapes to his wants. His wants shape to his needs. There is no room for maybe's and sorta's, or kinda's and hopefully's. There is only hope, the ideal kind that lingers in _we will _and _one day_, and he clings to that hope like he clings to the divine gift that possesses his dreams.

Madara dreams. He dreams of touches he never knew existed: pounding on his heart, suffocating on his breath; grasping his jaw, caressing a blade; licking his lip, tasting blood on his tongue. There are thoughts he couldn't fathom: burning desire and hatred, with flickering candles and desperate need. Men shape to his will. His will shapes to his wants. His wants shape to more wants, an unending stream of unsaid please's and yes's, or happy's and i love you's. There is only death, the shattering kind that aches in _we will _and _one day_, and he clings to that death like he clings to the traces of the unspoken love that possesses his dreams.

They are neither moth nor flame, but two souls twined in circles, with nothing to break it but a nightmare.


	2. Sunlight and Shadows

**DAY 2**

**Prompt:** Society

**Summary:** While a Senju recognized love, they could not utilize it; but an Uchiha understood love even when they could not recognize it, and once they put a name to their feelings, even in the silence of their own thoughts, they could not escape.

**A/N: **I found the excuse to weave headcanons into a drabble and took it. Rated M I suppose, though the nsfw is more of the implied, sensual variety.

* * *

The Senju have planted rice fields every spring since the dawn of time. The women learned to pick and pull before they learn to provide meals for their husbands; the men, in the brief silences of war, set fires to the crop fields between each cycle. Members crowded around and watched, pleading for the gods to bring good fortune to their lands, while the men controlled the direction of flames with their roaring Suiton. As a child, Hashirama sat dutifully on the sidelines. He would not participate, would not pray: he meditated.

In the winters before his Mokuton bloomed to perfection, when food was scarce even for their clan, Hashirama meditated. He could not weep for those who starved, especially for those of other clans, and for a family who boasted about the abilities of the heart, he learned quick that they were liars. And through their lies, he learned one other truth: Hunger itself starved a Senju slower than their limitations on love. They could not live without it, and yet they could not live with it in war, so they stuffed themselves full of rice instead of feeding themselves properly. The symptoms grew from the fraction of a second, and from then on, would not stop until they were dead or broken. The Senju recognized love, but they could not utilize it—only toss it aside for aspirations.

Hashirama loved to believe he was different. He prided himself in his uniqueness, his sunshine smile, his dazzling words. The thoughts he put on paper, in free verse or stanza, reflected the deepest desires of his heart. But he realized—as any romantic realizes at some point in his aching life—that love was his poison, and that no Senju could understand it.

To give his heart away, he gave in public. He relished the lingering looks of his people, no matter how skeptical, when he walked a little too close to Madara Uchiha. During council, when stuffy men spent hours upon hours debating which clan would go where, which fields would serve what purpose, how far they should stretch their territory, he would question Madara before anyone else, with much more vigor than anyone else, and wait patiently for an answer. If Madara chose to grace him with a morbid joke, Hashirama would respond with a boisterous laugh that echoed for all to hear, as if to say _look, look at him, look how funny he is, look at how magnificent and inspiring he can be, just give him a chance, please, a single chance and you'll see everything I see, you'll all understand!_

As the night sky clung to their bare skin and each breath left storms in their wake, Hashirama touched the side of Madara's cheek, fingertips lethal, and caressed him with promises of a love that would last an eternity. He mouthed tender kisses into that moonlit, fire-ridden skin, and sucked in each shadow with eagerness, as if to share the burden of darkness. But the more he consumed, the more he hungered, and when sunlight decorated the streets of Konoha, his fingers found Madara's hand, bare callouses against leather. He slipped through the gaps, felt the twitch and flinch, the rugged jerk backwards, and gripped him tight, with all the strength and certainty of a warrior.

Madara twisted apart. His Sharingan bled to life, black tomoe frozen in place, but Hashirama met his gaze in silence, staring with an intensity that shielded judgement from the passersby. Or so he had thought. But in the coming days, Madara walked at a distance, snapped in the silence of council meetings, and spoke at a low, mocking tone. If he was found at their cliff side, it was not to make love: he visited alone, with the war of his own thoughts. They did not speak personally, and if they shared a conversation of duty, it was clipped and strangled at the core. Hashirama could not say precisely how long the silence stretched, as it blurred into one line of frustration and impatient patience, but he recalled the haze of the afternoon when Madara confronted him, pinned him to the windowpane, disrobed him of what ridiculous layers he could, and ravaged him in the Hokage Tower for anyone who glanced through the window to witness.

Madara finished before Hashirama had the chance to start, but he did not mind. He said as much—assumed he was forgiven, that they could discuss the upcoming summit, and perhaps they could vacation at one of the springs, just the two of them.

_I'm leaving. _

He didn't question it. Of course it would not be good to linger in the office—what if Tobirama stumbled in, sometimes he turned off his sensor abilities, that's what he said.

It was a lie Hashirama learned to tell himself well.

While a Senju recognized love, they could not utilize it; but an Uchiha understood love even when they could not recognize it, and once they put a name to their feelings, even in the silence of their own thoughts, they could not escape. To make it tangible was suicide, and Madara could not yet afford his death, so he shunned what light he could and left the dawn after next.

Hashirama meditated. He sat atop their cliff until the ache in his heart subsided, and on the days when it would not, he wrote in his notebook until he was too numb to weep. Blobs of ink would spell out his heart—if he was frustrated or shattered or full of self-hatred and regret. And he constructed the perfect balance in his mind, or so he thought, where he could work with a smile and endure the worst.

Hashirama continued walking the village streets, distinctly alone; but sometimes he felt that presence, those eyes, and he would turn and reach with his hand. It was always someone else. The wrong eyes, the wrong hair, the wrong lips. The wrong crinkle or dimple or breath. Yet it was always the same walk: a dance in the shadows, haunting him with a hunger he could not sate. He died a fortnight before he turned fifty, a blade in his starving heart, and shortly after the last spike of his chakra, moonlit fingers came to dance in the grays of his hair one last time.

In the shadows.


	3. Confession

**DAY 4**

**Prompt:** Secrets & Lies

**A/N: **Implied NSFW.

**Summary:** Hashirama makes a confession.

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Secrets of the heart were best kept silent: the mind could not alter and the world could not suffocate. To string along words and sounds was to lie, but to feel and touch was to tell.

Sex was a confession.

Hashirama perceived every kiss and caress for what it was—a smirk tainted by blood and love. But he dealt best in words, in certainties and hope, and both were fickle things; they tricked the thoughts of those who wished to hear what they wanted, or those who did not dare to want and were given a taste of the promise that would never come.

Hashirama lied through his perfect, white teeth.  
Madara was no fool.

He was a man who endured in truth until he could no longer hide from the pretty words, the _I love you's _on Hashirama's breath—a plea as they fucked raw. _They'll come around, they'll see, you're wonderful Madara, I promise. I promise._

_I promise._

Madara hated that word. The more he promised, the sharper he grew his nails, the deeper he sunk his teeth, the extra bruises he left in their wake. The more he promised, the tighter his fingertips twisted and choked the words from Hashirama's throat, squeezing and pushing until Hashirama snapped, flared his chakra, and shouted the truth with his hands and his knees—stealing Madara's dignity and ravishing him from behind. And then, only then, could Hashirama be honest with his touches. He never made a promise after losing control.

Because sex was a confession, and Hashirama was a liar.


	4. Taste of Flesh

**Prompt: **Hatred & Cruelty.

**A/N: **Cannibalism, blood, gore. NSFW.

**Word Count: **~400

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_Words—a weapon mightier than the blade._  
_Stained, stained by thick purples and welting pinks._

_Dangerous letters, tied together in knotted sentences_  
_and feathered with the articulation_  
_of a nightmare._

* * *

Madara clicks his tongue against Hashirama's rotting flesh. There is anguish in the twist of dead muscle and blood clings to his mouth; he gnaws on that tanned shoulder, swallows the skin and bubbling veins, pulls them out with his teeth like the roots of his sanity. Hashirama endures with his back to the floor, but he knows only _Madara—_his gloved fingers and his sharp hairs, his burning eyes, those hips violating his bare waist. His eyes see only red—dark shades of his hair, pinks of his skin, and the auburn of a dimple that smiles at him, cruel and twisted and starved.

Madara eats him until he screams.

But Hashirama cradles his friend to his heart, lets him devour his ribcage, his arteries, clings to his nape as he gouges a hole in his body. His fingertips are light at Madara's throat, even as his cock throbs and aches, begging for the release refused to him. Blood pools everywhere, covering and filling Madara's backside, but he does not rip his limbs apart or tear into skin. He does not scream.

His cruelty is in his words, and how soft they are said.

_Take my heart  
My skin  
My organs and blood  
Take me, devour me_  
_I'm yours_  
_Only yours_

_Madara_  
_Madara_  
_Madara—_

Madara chews out his throat and lungs, but still, Hashirama speaks.__

I choose you.  
Only you.  
I'm sorry—

I'm so sorry…

I love you

And then Madara tugs on Hashirama's heart, yanks the organ out of his body, and squeezes it in the palm of his hand until it ruptures with a squelch and pop.

Only then does Hashirama scream.

Brilliant white fades to midnight black, and Hashirama jumps from his bed, fingers clutching his chest. He shakes with the tears that will not come.

But Madara, far away in the confines of his cave, clutches onto a wooden statues, every inch of it mapped with the eternal memory of Hashirama's bare skin, still, still not nearly the same—

And he weeps.


	5. Illusions

**Prompt:** Illusions  
**Warnings:** None  
**A/N:** This was originally part of a much larger fic, but the flow was off and in the end this was all I could manage.  
**Word Count:** 237

* * *

Madara was a man of illusions. He swallowed them with each breath and spoke with each word; he gave shape and form; he tasted in washed of blood. He molded these concepts into the pungent, black grain of the Mokuton—the curve of a cheek, the sharpness of a jaw, the taut perk of those muscles, and the dip of those hips; but he could not bear to construct anything further and hid the rest in his shadows.

In his cowardice was the echo of truth: Hashirama was not here, not in his spirit or body or mind, and certainly not in his Mokuton. Hashirama's wood had always carried the scent of pine, no matter the type, and a gold sheen clung to the bark and the grain. It had been light. It had tickled his skin with leaves and drew blood with its thorns, but it had always been a pleasant burn, and Madara's body had always welcomed it regardless.

Death called forth one last illusion: He spent his solitude crafting a false life for himself, and in the end he finished the tale—two old men, side by side, drawing their last breaths on the cliff of their childhood.

But for all the vivid colors, the caress of a breeze, the stains of grass and perfume of camellia, Madara could not trick himself into this falsehood, and he died as he knew life to be—miserable and eager.


End file.
